Tag: Phillip Hoyle

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Workout, by Phillip Hoyle

I suppose we weren’t quite prepared for the mess although two summers ago Jim and I noticed the Honey Locust tree in the backyard was producing seedpods, a few of them. Last summer there were quite a few more. This summer the tree went crazy with its genetic demand to replicate and has produced hundreds of pods. They are not small, some measuring more than a foot in length and they hang in clusters of two to six. I thought them rather decorative like holiday ornaments. Our neighborhood squirrels showed up for the seasonal party and since the last week of August have gleefully begun their harvest.

If you know squirrels you realize they are as messy as teenagers, never cleaning up after themselves like the adolescent son in the comic strip Zits. I know about that because my daughter was one messy kid. Still is and so are her children. Luckily I don’t live nearby so I’m rarely irked by them. But the squirrels live here. They’re as cute as my grandkids and, like them, never give a thought about the consequences of their messes. The tree rats focus only on their preparation for the oncoming winter with its cold temperatures, snows, and otherwise harsh conditions that challenge rodent survival. I don’t blame them, but I do have to contend with what they leave behind. The squirrels live here and interest me. I watch and then grab the broom; my partner just gets mad.

A week ago Saturday I observed one of the three or four varmints who show up every day. She or he sat on a small branch harvesting. For twenty minutes the critter ate never having to prepare or even reach very far for its meal. She picked a pod, methodically removed the seeds, and dispensed with the rest. A pod landing on the clear plastic awning sounds like a low caliber rifle shot. The first hit was why I knew the squirrel was up there. I leaned back to watch. She chose a pod, worked it like I might an ear of corn except that she’d spit out the pod bites and keep only the seeds. When done in a few minutes or when she loses her grip, the pod falls. Bam. Then she may bite the stem of one of the compound leaves for a taste of something (perhaps flavoring) or strips off a bit of bark (her favorite) and then reaches for another pod. Perhaps due to my attention she soon jumped from that branch to another and disappeared from sight.

I began sweeping the patio a few days ago. Each day I pick up two or three hundred chewed-on pods and dump them by shovel fulls into the compost container. I tend to sweep when the sun gets low and the air begins to cool. The next morning reveals quite a few more pods on the patio, in flowering plants, sticker bushes, fountains, and on the awning. I hope this workout will be done before too many more days although I do get a bit of aerobic exercise and have improved my technique with the broom. But mostly I get a kick out of spotting our furry friends still at work high over head.

© 11 September 2017

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Figures, by Phillip Hoyle

Following a fifth grade public humiliation in art class, I decided I could not draw figures. I was slightly interested but never liked what I drew after that. In seventh grade I signed up for wood shop to be in class with my best friend Keith. The only thing I actually liked in that class, besides cleaning varnish brushes (I liked the way twirling bristles full of soap felt on the palms of my hands), was drawing and wood burning a design onto the bookends I made. I should have signed up for art but I just knew I wasn’t an artist.

Due to my responsibilities in religious education I organized art programs for children. One teacher taught figure drawing. She made sure it included things like crosses and globes so the parents would understand why. Mostly I was interested that children grow artistically (music, drama, and visual arts) seeing them as religious expression, skills they would never forget from their childhood years in church.

Eventually I knew I needed to draw, so I bought a book on how to draw in a natural way, a large drawing tablet, and a set of art pencils. I worked at it and learned. Still I wasn’t a strong drawer. When I later signed up for a drawing workshop the thing didn’t get enough enrollees. I kept at my own figure drawing, even used my slight skills in my work.

Figures of speech were much more familiar to me. I had learned speech and some rhetoric in college and graduate school, wrote many papers to satisfy my professors, used the assigned topics in my own way in order to do research related to what intrigued me in the classes, preached a bit and eventually wrote professionally (probably a figure of speech itself although I did get paid for my work). I wasn’t a strong speaker, but I did enjoy turning ideas into written pieces.

Important figures in my life, you know those special people known or read about, include: my parents and grandparents, Lakota leader Sitting Bull, local minister W. F. Lown, a family friend who took me to powwows, The Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., Professor James Van Buren, several other profs, two music performance teachers, late-in-life art teachers, Myrna Hoyle my long-time wife and mother of our children, a few other partners in my gay life, many authors, some editors, the late Winston Weathers, and now some creative writing teachers.

I figure it has taken a village of thinkers, writers, musicians, and artists to make me into what I have become these days. I celebrate them and the many, many people who have put up with me in the home, work, friendships, general community, and of course, in the SAGE Telling Your Story group at the GLBT Center of Colorado. And I add; these last tributes are not just figures of speech, but rather, real live influences and personal realities that I appreciate and revere.

© 5 Jun 2017

About the Author 

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general, he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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My First GLBT Acquaintance, by Phillip Hoyle

My first gay acquaintance had a rather elegant name,
Edward F. Printz, III, something I never expected of a person from a western
Kansas farm. I knew him as Ted. Of course he drove a tractor, but he also sang
at school, was the drum major for the high school band, and by the time I met
him he’d been hired as the music director for our little college. My last
semester there Ted led the choir I sang in and taught me vocal technique. I
learned so much from him.
While I was unschooled in language like “gay” and had
heard “queer” as an old fashioned word one of my grandmother’s used with some
regularity, I knew in a flash that Ted would be interested to do some of the sexual
things that I also would be interested to do had I not got married a year and a
half before meeting him. I really liked his buoyant and outgoing personality
and hoped he would never ask me to do those interesting things with him. I knew
I would not ask him to do them with me. Still I realized that we were much the
same and came to understand that sameness to be gayness. I picked up the gay
word from reading a book in the school library, a sociological study that along
with its main topic defined some common gay male words. I learned more about
this world of gay and found myself interested, oh so interested.
 I felt no
compelling need to enter that world but still was curious. Ted and I became life-long
friends. He became a regular visitor in our home after I graduated. Since we
had moved to the city where his voice teacher lived, Ted visited us some
weekends. One summer while he was in graduate school and lived with us, Ted
served as tenor soloist in the Chancel Choir I directed. Our friendship became
more complex. The relationship between the ever-teacher Ted and the
ever-student Phil endured until Ted’s death on his 47th birthday, April 29,
1994. Eventually I did enter Ted’s gay world. I lived as an openly gay man and
dedicated my fifteen years of massage work with HIV positive persons to his
memory. And I recall his wisdom and humor almost daily.
© 17 July 2017 
About the Author 
Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his
time writing, painting, and socializing. In general, he keeps busy with groups
of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen
in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He
volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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The Recliner, by Phillip Hoyle

Some years ago when my back started hurting I got a
new swivel chair for my desk at work. Then my wife and I bought a new firm
mattress. These two steps were helpful yet did not solve the problem totally.
Then I bought myself better shoes that gave my arches adequate support. I was
really beginning to feel fine. Then Myrna bought me a recliner, a small one
from La-Z-Boy®. I was not quite sure of the message, but I did find the chair
moderately comfortable. From my point of view the seemed unnecessary, maybe not
a good choice for I had never been able to sit or sleep comfortably in such
chairs. Still, this model seemed okay for me due to the facts it was more firm
than our mattress and it was not one of those monster-size chairs made for
retired football linemen. The recliner sat next to the bed. I got a lamp so I could
read while sitting in it. That was in the days when I was reading five books a
week. Using a pillow, I could read for hours and not hurt my back. My back got
even better—actually stronger—when I added Super Circuit at the gym as well as
my marathon reading in the recliner.
Some people at the church where I worked thought we
would enjoy a new TV. They bought a nice SONY model, a really large one. It was
fine but we didn’t really want nor need a TV to replace the smaller one that
worked just fine. In fact, the new TV required that we buy an entertainment
center large enough to hold it. We found a nice one but realized we had no
place for it in the living room. So it went into our rather large bedroom, and
of course the kids wanted to come and watch the big one. I rarely watched TV.
My space was being eroded. I wondered if I would become a recliner potato, but couldn’t
recline in the new chair to watch the big TV because my new glasses were
bifocal.  
Oh the problems of modern life for the ageing. As you
may suppose I was ageing a long time ago! And the process hasn’t ended. Actually
I’m pleased about that. If I ever start not ageing…. Well I suspect you’ve
already been thinking about such things. Where I live now there two recliners.
I suspect I‘ll be using both of them for even more reclining while my life is
declining, but I do hope that’s a ways off for me.
© 6 Feb 2017 
About the Author 
Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his
time writing, painting, and socializing. In general, he keeps busy with groups
of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen
in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He
volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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Flowers, by Phillip Hoyle

1915
I’ve watched the Seasons passing slow, so
slow,
In the fields between La Bassée and Bethune;
Primroses and the first warm day of Spring,
Red poppy floods of June,
August, and yellowing Autumn, so
To Winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow,
And you’ve been everything.

Dear, you’ve been everything that I most lack
In these soul-deadening trenches—pictures, books,
Music, the quiet of an English wood,
Beautiful comrade-looks,
The narrow, bouldered mountain-track,
The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black,
And Peace, and all that’s good.

Robert Graves
I
was never sure why the romantic tradition never set well with me. I read poetry
in high school and college that usually left me simply wondering what the poet
felt and meant. I didn’t really like romantic sections of books or movies; they
seemed like an interruption to a good plot. I had friends I found interesting,
boys who intrigued me, girls I wanted to date. For school dances I bought
flowers for the girls. For my girlfriend I bought a necklace with a fiery opal.
She was thrilled. But I knew I was following a form I had learned rather than a
feeling that called me into a world of romance. My deepest feelings were for
boys rather than girls, but of course, that attraction didn’t proffer any
romantic images. They just weren’t there; at least I couldn’t find them. In
those days I’m sure that had I read this Robert Graves poem “1915”, I would
have missed the “beautiful comrade-looks” he cited; for in the world in which I
grew up romance, such as was described in poetry, was meant for a special
relationship between a man and a woman.
My
introduction to Walt Whitman was given no homosexual slant. It was interpreted
by a minister/scholar whose enthusiasm for the poet’s work took a theological
slant, one that celebrated all creation. It was the first poetry I could
honestly admit to liking—well besides James Whitcomb Riley’s “Little Orphan
Annie”, Henry W. Longfellow’s “The Song of Hiawatha”, and Vachel Lindsay’s “The
Congo”. It took years to open myself to the idea that Whitman was talking about
romance between two men, like comrades at arms or friends lying together in
leaves of grass.
I
married at age 21. I deeply loved my wife and was so pleased to be entering the
life we chose together. But even after living together, I realized the gifts I
offered her were to her something quite different than they were to me. Her
view of our relationship was romanticized. Mine was enthusiastic and generous
and celebrated love, a la C. S.
Lewis’ writing, especially his book Basic Christianity. I found it so
helpful but eventually I came to realize his view was inadequate, the old Don
speaking long before he had the experience of falling in love, a thing that for
him came late in life.
At
age 30 I fell in love with a man. Then I began to know a bit of what romance
was about. But being such a late blooming flower in that field, it took
twenty-five years more for me to fall deeply in love. For that experience I
thank the most beautiful male flower I ever encountered, Rafael Martínez, whom
I deeply loved in every practical and romantic way the two of us could imagine.
He amazed me one night when he said, “You’re so romantic.”
Using his best English, Rafael wrote in a
card: “My sweet love; I can’t express in
full sentences what my soul and heart feel. My whole life has been changed and
you made everything spin around in me. I am overwhelmed.
“When
I express out and loud I love you, you don’t have any idea of how much I mean
it.
“I
am not just glad to have you. I am extensible and sensible over you (and deeply
in love).”
I
thought that card was better than any love lyric I had ever enjoyed or any bouquet
of flowers I had ever seen. And I too loved Rafael.
© 13 Feb 2017 
About
the Author 
Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his
time writing, painting, and socializing. In general, he keeps busy with groups
of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen
in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He
volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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Fitness, by Phillip Hoyle

I certainly am no fitness fanatic. It only takes a glance to know that. But there was a two-year period in my life when I went to the gym twice a week to exercise. I started at age 41 a couple of months after the Senior Minister of our congregation unexpectedly died at age 51. Like him I had some extra weight. I knew I was in for a lot of work dealing with a mourning congregation, an interim Senior Minister (turned out to be two of them, the first one who exuded negative assessment and power, the second one who had brain damage from an automobile accident), and the adjustments to the arrival of a new Senior Minister. A choir member suggested I join with her, my wife, and the church’s Administrative Assistant at a nearby gym for a twice-weekly noon-time Super Circuit. She thought we’d enjoy it.

Super Circuit combines aerobic with strength exercises. Each one-hour session began with warm-ups. Then the over-enthusiastic leader blew her whistle to begin the circuit. I’d walk to a near-by machine, set the weight, and do 12 or 15 reps working my abs, pecs, delts, lats, quads, or another muscle group. Finishing that I’d join in jogging, jumping rope, doing chin ups (I’m sure I could do one), walking on the treadmill, pedaling my way nowhere on a stationary bike, or some other option. The next whistle blow called us to the next station just counter-clock-wise to the first. In addition to the machines, the stations included a bench press, a place to do crunches, and other techniques of self-torture. The back and forth between stations and aerobics lasted 45 minutes. No stopping. When the last whistle blew, we’d gather back in the original assembly for stretches. Then it was off to the shower room. After that our little trio would drag ourselves about three blocks to Subway for vegetarian sandwiches and a Sprite. Numb, I’d return to work.

Did I get fit? Yes. After several months, about the same time my knees quit aching, I realized I could sing with an ease I had never before achieved. I reasoned it was the combination of aerobic (breath control) and strength (core development) that served me well.

Asking “Did I enjoy it?” seems appropriate. I didn’t lose any weight but I did feel fat turn into muscle. I was amused that I pressed more weight with my legs than either of the two younger buff athletic men in the class. Myrna and Maggie dropped out after a couple of months. I persisted two years during the interim and first months of the new Senior Minister. Then I made my escape, a story I’ve already told in this group.

When I moved to Albuquerque I located a gym near the church, but they had neither Super Circuit nor showers. Since my budget was already stretched I quit fitness training and eventually signed up for voice lessons.

When at age 51 I dropped out of polite society, I went to massage school. For the next fifteen years I did exercises like I had never experienced before. When I realized I had developed my biceps and triceps, I made my kids and grandkids feel them. Grandpa was becoming more fit than ever in his life, and I got paid for doing so. Now that was years ago. I’ll make no further comment except to use a phrase I learned from the Senior Minister whose death sent me to the gym. “Don’t throw a fit and fall in it.”

© 31 July 2017

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Evil, by Phillip Hoyle

I hate capitalized words in philosophy and theology. It’s okay if those words stand at the beginning of a sentence, but even then, if it’s a word like evil or truth, I get the jitters. The problem for me goes way back to the days I was paying attention to philosophical matters related to religion. In my early twenties I came to appreciate my childhood and teen years because in church we never said what was called “The Lord’s Prayer.” We knew it because it was in the Bible, but that prayer was not said in unison as an element of weekly liturgy. I grew up in a “free church” tradition congregation. There were no liturgical prayers except a benediction song, “God be with you ’til we meet again.” Our prayers were spontaneous improvisations related to the moment.

At age 22 I took a job in an urban church that met in a modified Gothic building with medieval-looking art glass windows and aped liturgical tradition although it taught the same Free Church approach as the church of my upbringing. Because of my studies I was especially sensitive over the weekly repetition of the Lord’s Prayer, knowing it was archaic and a bad translation. In short, I did not grow up saying weekly what most Christians said, “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” I knew evil should be translated the evil one, that mythological ascription to the devil or Satan. I was not interested in such myths and fears. I had never dreamed of such a being and have still not done so. I knew there were enough real moral challenges that dwelt in me as well as in social life. I wasn’t attracted to reifying ancient language as if it were scientific. I felt I was lucky while at the same time I worked to examine the educational effects of weekly saying something one didn’t believe. No wonder people who grew up in those old-fashioned liturgical churches often rejected them. No wonder some of them claimed that religion was itself the origin of all evil in the world.

I knew unhealthy activities made up a part of my life. I knew that I was much less than perfect. I also knew perfection wasn’t my goal in life. I simply wanted to live in relationship with many people from all walks of life (to the extent that I understood life at such an early age). I wasn’t judgmental about their decisions and was more interested in my goals than in my disappointments. Also I was not interested to blame my foibles on some external power in the universe. I accepted that all persons, all organizations, all best intentions were also subject to being imperfect, that all visions of perfection were imperfect and ultimately unattainable. I focused on the ethical tradition “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” That seemed enough to me. And it still seems adequate. I do sometimes say a quiet prayer silently. Deliver me from mistaken images of evil that will invite me to pound a wedge between me and the vast world of difference such as difference of race, nationality, values, hopes, dreams, commitments, and so much more. I have too much fun meeting life as it presents itself and too little time to fret over my own or another’s evil. I do hope to love my enemies, to serve my communities in hopes of building better opportunities for all people. I do hope for a better world. But deliver me from evil? Too metaphysical for me.

© 26 June 2017

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Hero – Heroine, by Phillip Hoyle

My dad deeply respected two ministers who pastored the
church I grew up in: Brother W.F. Lown and Brother Charles Cook. Both highly
educated men were skillful preachers, fine administrators, and dedicated
ministers. Brother Lown baptized me at a rather early age because I insisted on
it. Several years later he spoke to me about becoming a minister. I was eight
years old when he planted that seed. I started paying attention to what was
being said around the church—sermons, lessons, conversations, and discussions.
When Lown left to become the president of a nearby church-related college, I
got to know Brother Cook, our new minister. I watched him carefully and was
surprised (and probably disappointed) one weekday afternoon at junior high
choir rehearsal when some girls were paying no attention and talking mindlessly
while we were practicing. He yelled, “What in the Sam Hill do you think you are
doing?” He made it clear he wanted us to work not gab. Although I was mildly
shocked, I realized that ministers were people with a full range of emotions.
That was probably the main experience that made it possible for me to actually
become a minister. That day I realized that ministers are human beings not
heroes, well all but one of them.
My hero a minister I started hearing about when I was
a few years older: The Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King, Junior. I paid
attention to his career, preaching, and activism. He eclipsed my attraction to
Billy Graham whom I also greatly respected. King’s power as a speaker got my attention,
but mostly his message of equality for all people made great sense out of the
old gospel message of salvation I had heard since the first Sunday after my
birth. And his message of racial equality filled a void made in my life by our
family’s move from the Army town where I was born to a small county seat town
where there were no African Americans, no persons of Asian descent, and only
two Hispanic people—a mother and her daughter. I missed people who looked,
thought, and lived differently. I missed people who were recent immigrants from
Germany, Japan or Puerto Rico. I missed many friends and neighbors who, thanks
to Kings preaching, I realized weren’t getting a fair shake in America. I liked
the practical, daily, living, moral message of his preaching. And of course I
liked his oratory and forceful leadership. I had a real hero—one who was a
warrior, a leader, a strategist, a public figure who served his people—the
whole people of the United States of America—and who paid the ultimate price
for his courage and leadership.
Years later, when my African Son whom I was visiting
in Memphis, Tennessee took me to the MLK Memorial at the place King was
murdered, I realized this man, unlike activists I met in the late 1970s, was
not living high on the hog. He was staying in an old motel in downtown Memphis.
Nothing fancy. He lived with the least of these his brothers and sisters. And
he was a real human being with the full range of human emotions and experience.
King became my first hero and to date my only one.
© 30 January 2017 
About the Author 
Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his
time writing, painting, and socializing. In general, he keeps busy with groups
of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen
in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He
volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
Posted on

Games, by Phillip Hoyle

As a kid I never much liked games of competition, but
I did like games of simulation. The former were based on beating
others—winning. My early aversion arose most likely from my lack of physical
strength and coordination combined with my weak skills in strategizing. If I
ran a race, I simply ran. The problem was that I ran too slowly. I couldn’t
throw balls far or fast and the balls rarely showed up where I thought I was
throwing them. At the shooting range I couldn’t see very well even though I had
no idea of that. Then when I got corrective lenses I never could figure out how
to compensate. I had a hard time concentrating on activities that didn’t
capture my imagination.
I avoided football and baseball. I was attracted to
basketball, but I wasn’t even a good basketball player. I wasn’t aggressive
enough and didn’t care to be better than the other guys. But growing up I did
like games like War, Cops and Robbers, and my favorite, Cowboys and Indians. I
probably liked the costuming, props, and improvisatory acting. I was especially
repelled by party games—games like Pin the Tail on the Donkey, or dropping
clothes pins into milk bottles. I could play cards: War, Canasta, Gin Rummy, Pinochle,
Poker, and Pitch, but I abhorred spin the bottle. I wasn’t interested to kiss
anyone (well until 10th grade when I learned to kiss Buddy).
I started working in churches fulltime in 1970 at the
outbreak of the Learning Games Movement. Some of these were pretty awful and
met strong resistance particularly from adult groups. I did like the Simulation
Games—an accommodation of military training practices used to introduce
students to strategic thinking as related to their topics of study. (It seems
strange that I liked them given their origins!) Of course school teachers had
long used competitive games like spelling bees and other more complicated ones
like debate. Even in my high school years church youth rallies sported television
game-show-inspired competitions over biblical knowledge pitting teams from
neighboring churches. Although I knew the Bible pretty well, I never was
interested to use the knowledge for purposes of showing off. It seemed somehow
antithetical to the sense of charity or cooperation I learned from the Good
Book’s best teachings. And remember, I was not very competitive.
During the 70s the New Games Movement started
introducing cooperative games strategized to create community—Hippie-inspired group
play that featured Earth Balls and sometimes flowers. I started developing similar
games—both the New Games and Simulations—for youth retreats and elementary
residential camps, ones related directly to the curricular themes and that
often involved the creation of environments, for example, a simulated
archaeological dig or a Middle-Eastern marketplace. These were much more
related to the simulation games of childhood than they were to sporting events,
and they proved effective in teaching.
To this day I fail to understand any competition that devalues
human life—either that of an individual or of a group. Still I do appreciate
the grace and power of athletes. I also like a couple of card games that have
so little strategy as not to stifle conversation among the players. But I don’t
like playing even those games with players who take winning too seriously.
Lest you think I am just an old stick in the mud, I
will admit to enjoying the Christmas games my youngest granddaughters planned
for our family. They involved individuals and teams. My favorite was the Reindeer
Game. For my team I hurriedly blew up and tied off small balloons until I was
out of breath and feeling very light headed. The balloons were then stuffed
into panty hose. The team that first successfully filled the legs like antlers
and whose reindeer donned them first won. Selected for the honor of being the
reindeer were my son Michael and his wife Heather. They looked bizarrely cute,
but my favorite part of that game was my daughter Desma’s story of trying to
purchase panty hose. Suppliers have become rare. Finally she found a store that
still carries them. The clerk said, “Yes, we have them. You must be going to
play the Reindeer Game; it’s all the rage at the State workers’ office parties
this year. You got here just in time.” Handing Desma the hosiery she said, “Here
are the last two pair.”
Oh the games people play.
© 16 January 2017 
About the Author 
 Phillip Hoyle
lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In
general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two
years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now
focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE
program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
Posted on

Self-Acceptance, by Phillip Hoyle

I believe that my self-perception of being religiously more liberal in a conservative environment, an assumption I learned at home as early as my junior high years, trained me to be self-accepting. In that theological context which was salvationistic and somewhat Calvinistic, I knew the ultimate goal of religion was to love God and neighbor. The moral/ethical code was flexible. I knew I was different but didn’t worry over it. I accepted my differences as not being eternally fatal. I didn’t worry over fitting into something I could not do. I believed I had a place in the larger picture of things. I worked from an introvert space although I knew how to participate in extrovert activities and with extraordinarily extrovert personalities.
I was responsible; adults liked that in me. I laughed easily; kids liked that in me. I liked life. I liked myself. I liked others. I was able to fit in easily enough. I did good class work, was polite, enjoyed choir, went to Boy Scouts, worked at the store, and saved money to go to college. Furthermore, no one around me ranted about sin.
What happened in my early teen developmental phase was quite positive and in most ways reflected the norms of developmental theory. I liked myself with my many projects. I was singing in two choirs, taught myself how to lead music (meaning, gestures for choirs and congregations), and practiced them in front of the mirror where sometimes I fantasized being an orchestral conductor. I worked on merit badges, I read books endlessly, and I learned steps for pop and rock and Native American dancing. I made Indian costumes. I collected Native American art prints. I carried out groceries. I made friends.
In the next few years I watched carefully as life changed for me. I realized the sex play with my friends, the boys among them, still attracted me after the others lost interest. I didn’t turn down opportunities for similar liaisons with newcomers, but I didn’t find many. (Actually, I found only one, and too soon his family moved away.) Still I developed friendships with girls and with straight guys. I was busy. Still am. I liked my life. I was entrusted with leadership, even leadership I didn’t especially want. Still am.
Lucky me—I didn’t get kidded much, was rarely taunted, and never beat up. Because I was used to being different, when I did encounter the occasional put down, I didn’t believe it and even might interpret it as a kind of intimacy. I liked myself and knew other people liked me too. Besides, I was too busy to worry over it.
In high school years I undertook interior decoration as a supplement to my Indian fascination, took an interest in fine art and frames, and engaged in more visual artwork. I continued taking music lessons and played piano and sang. I listened to all kinds of music and sang at church, school, and civic functions.
All my adult life I have kept busy, busy, busy! When I worked I did several jobs and in some ways contributed a lot more work than any church paid me for. I composed and arranged music for my choirs. I taught training workshops, led discussion groups, and taught core curricula in bible and theology. I taught a class in congregational education organization for the Missouri School of Religion. And I attended endless meetings, worked on boards and committees in churches, among clergy, within the denomination, in interdenominational settings, and the larger community. I led a denomination-wide professional organization, planned camps, coordinated conferences, on and on. Eventually I wrote religious education resources for a publishing company. I deeply enjoyed my family, deeply loved my wife, and deeply loved a few men.
My eldest sister said it most clearly, “At home we learned that the big sin was to be bored.” I guess I was an over achiever. Still am. Still accept and love myself. Still write and read and entertain. Still do many social things with my diverse pool of friends.
My urologist saw something in me besides my much enlarged prostate gland. He said I was lucky. I attributed it all to my genetic inheritance. He thought it was something else. He and I finally agreed my luck was due to both nature and nurture. Besides my genetically inherited Pollyanna tendencies, there were the open attitude of my family, attendance in integrated schools, and working in a grocery store from age thirteen. Even the church I grew up in and worked in was not sectarian and pursued an ecumenical vision. I am its child and I like life. I like and accept myself with all my differences. And especially, I like my differences.
© 12 Dec 2016 
About the Author 
 Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com